


The Adventure Of The King Stone (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [60]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Caring Castiel, Curses, M/M, Murder, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 09:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10805961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A man is killed whilst wearing the wrong scarf, someone watches the birds, and the case ends with Watson definitely not in tears. There may or may not be a very manly display of hugg... affection.





	The Adventure Of The King Stone (1887)

**Author's Note:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as the 'case of the Jew pedlar', and also as one of the cases in which Sherlock helped out Inspector Macdonald.

I have always admired Sherlock for the way in which he listened to all cases brought before him, and did not allow the appearance or social status of the potential client influence him in any way, shape or form. But today, I felt, was pushing it.

The man sat in the fireside chair at Baker Street was, by any appearance, a mess (and I lived with Sherlock, remember!). I had thought at first that some Jew pedlar had managed to charm his way past Mrs. Harvelle - which, when I look back at it, was about as likely as Hell freezing over! - but physical untidiness apart, this man just looked... well, a mess. Which, I suppose, went to show that my observational skills were pretty much on a par with my detective abilities. 

Par, of course, being the golfing term for zero!

“What service does one of the most successful pawnbrokers in Old London Town require of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” my friend asked politely. 

“I see that you know of me, Mr. Holmes”, our visitor said, sounding a little surprised. “How, may I ask? I do not exactly put myself out in society.”

I was not going to think the obvious thought that his appearance told even me that. I considered risking a small smile, but Sherlock was already shooting me the warning look. I settled for a mild scowl (not a pout) at his omniscience.

“Mr. Lipman”, Sherlock smiled, “it is my business to know everyone who makes this city of ours function. In my line of work, it pays to avoid surprises, as unpleasant ones can sometimes be fatal. But to answer your specific question, I have had more than one set of dealings with the fabled 'Queen Molly', and she spoke most highly of you.”

I remembered the Queen of the Beg.... Mendicants, ruling her rag-tag empire from a flower-shop in the East End. My only encounter with her had been in the de Braose case, but I supposed that Sherlock must have seen her himself over smaller matters. There was little hidden from her watchful 'subjects'.

“I value such royal patronage”, our visitor said politely. “I will be brief, because as you know, time is money. Although I am sure that your own intelligence networks match or possibly even exceed my own, you may not know that there is a connection between us.”

I was not going to think bad hair, I was not going to think bad hair, I.... I coughed, and reached for a glass of water. Sherlock glared at me.

“My niece Ruth is married to a Mr. Alexander Macdonald”, our visitor said, “who is nephew to Inspector Fraser Macdonald, your friend Sergeant Henriksen's superior. Alexander is a constable in the Warwickshire Constabulary, based in the village of Long Compton hard by the Oxfordshire border, and he recently encountered a case which had one very peculiar element to it. Indeed, had he not been of the Scots culture, he would not have noticed.”

“Pray continue”, Sherlock said.

“I know that the death in question did not reach the London papers”, our guest said, “although there were some suspicious circumstances around it. It happened last week, the victim being a local landowner, Lord Sewell. He owned a small property at the southern end of the village, at the bottom of a steep hill. I went there myself on one occasion, to see my niece, so I know of the area.”

“My nephew is, I should say, very unlike his uncle. Young Alexander gives the impression of being slow to the point of imbecility, something that more than one of the local ne'er-do-wells have found out the hard way is definitely not the case. I think that it would be best if he were to give you the precise details of the case, but I will tell you why he thought it so strange, as I know that it is sometimes the _outré_ elements in a case that appeal to you. It concerned two woollen scarves.”

I looked at our guest in surprise. Of all the things that I might have been expecting, that had not been amongst them.

“Scarves”, Sherlock said calmly, as if neckwear somehow featured regularly in our cases (it did not). 

“Petronella, Lord Sewell's housekeeper and a frankly terrifying lady, told my nephew that, two weeks prior to his demise, her master had ordered a new scarf from a high-end shop in London”, our guest continued. “A hand-made one in his ancestral clan colours; coincidentally he was a Macdonald, albeit through his late mother. However, when it arrived, he was most upset, because it was the wrong plaid.”

“How did they manage that?” I asked.

“Most probably a misunderstanding”, Sherlock said. “The Macdonalds were a large clan and had several groups of peoples scattered across the Highlands, each with their own distinctive tartan. Plus there would be a general clan and a dress tartan as well.”

(Although it did not come up in this case, I would later find out that my friend too had a connection to this great clan). 

“I see that you are well-versed in matters Caledonian”, our guest smiled. “Lord Sewell was most cross, and refused to send the scarf back until the company dispatched him the correct one. The latter arrived on the day of his death, which was interesting. Because when my nephew was shown the body, Lord Sewell was wearing the old scarf that he had hated so much.”

“Could he have put it on in error?” I wondered.

“Utterly impossible!” Sherlock snorted. “A clansman wearing the wrong tartan would be like an Englishman waving a French flag during the Jubilee!”

I felt suitably chastened. Our guest nodded.

“The housekeeper did say that he kept them in the one drawer”, he admitted. “I wondered that myself, doctor – but Alexander told me that the original one was predominantly green with thin red bands, whilst the replacement was blue blocks of different shades. Very different, I would have said, and as a MacDonald himself, he would know. Would you be prepared to consider the matter?”

“I would be delighted”, Sherlock said.

+~+~+

“It all sounds very little to go on”, I said. “A man wears the wrong scarf, and dies. Men have been killed for less, I suppose, but this seems bizarre.”

“Mr. Lipman is, despite the appearance that you only narrowly forbore from commenting on, one of the richest men in the City”, Sherlock said dryly. I blushed fiercely. “If he can sense that something is wrong in far Warwickshire, then something is very, very wrong.”

+~+~+

The following day we visited our friend Henriksen's police station and talked briefly with Inspector Macdonald, who seemed surprised at our interest in the death.

“If it was murder”, he said in his broad Caledonian accent, “then someone was damn clever. Alex is a good lad. If he thinks something's wrong, something is wrong.”

“We shall go there tomorrow”, Sherlock said. “The doctor has a few days off for once, not having killed too many patients of late.”

Why was he always out of swatting distance when he came out with things like that? The inspector looked perilously close to something vaguely resembling a faint smile.

“You might want to take the train to Stratford, then, and ask Alex to collect you from there”, he said.

I frowned. I had only glanced quickly at a map of the area, but I was fairly sure that Shakespeare's birthplace was around fifteen miles north of Long Compton, where the crime had occurred, and that there was a railway line running nearby to the south and west of the village. Surely there had to be a station closer?

“We shall take your advice”, Sherlock said gravely.

I wondered at that, but said nothing.

+~+~+

That Friday, Sherlock and I set off early to Paddington Station, having arranged that Constable Macdonald would collect us from Stratford when we got there around lunch-time. I privately hoped that my friend would solve this case quickly, and that I might then persuade him to go back to Shakespeare's birthplace, which was a town that I had long wanted to visit. I feared however that I would not get the chance; Sherlock would most likely travel back to London from Chipping Norton, which was only a few miles south of our destination. We really should have gone there to start with.

Constable Macdonald explained one reason as to why we had gone on such a roundabout route to his village as he drove us south through some pleasant Warwickshire countryside.

“I dare say that you in particular, Mr. Holmes, appreciate just how parochial some constabularies are”, he said.

That was true. Holmes had had a minor case some little time back, one that had straddled the border between the City of London and Metropolitan Constabularies, and getting the two to co-operate had been a Herculean task, one that fortunately he had proven equal to. Some policemen (and the upper ranks were even worse!) seemed to find it difficult to remember that they were all supposed to be on the same side!

“The victim died near the King Stone, south of the village”, our host continued. “It is part of a set of ancient stones; there is a ring and a sort of tomb thing nearby. The problem is, sir, it is right on the border with Oxfordshire, and the lads in Chipping Norton think that it should be their case.”

So _that_ had been why we had not gone through Chipping Norton, I mused. Despite the alleged backwardness of some country areas, the one surety was that the arrival of a famous consulting detective to such an area would be around the place in hours, and of course the local constabulary would not be pleased. Honestly, some people!

“Please tell us about the victim”, Sherlock said.

“Rædwald, Lord Sewell”, the constable said. “In his seventies, and in moderate health; he walked out most days except when the weather was too bad. The climb to the stones is steep; I was a bit surprised that he had attempted it, given that there were easier walks in the area and there was mist on the hill that day, but then he was that kind of person.”

“How did he die?” I asked.

“Doctor Charing said heart attack”, the constable said, sounding somewhat dubious. “I am not so sure, especially given the fact he was wearing that damn scarf. He was very proud of his Scots heritage, and there was no way he would have been seen dead in that thing!”

“Evidently he was seen dead in it”, Sherlock said dryly. “So, _cui bono_? Who stood to gain by the man's death?”

“Title and estate goes to his younger brother, Sigeberht”, the constable said. “Considerably younger, as he's just turned fifty; their mother had eleven children of whom they were the eldest and second youngest, but of the intervening ones only two were sons, and both later died. The title is one of those ancient ones that can only pass through the male line. I think the five daughters who made it to adulthood all got small sums. None of them are still in the area.”

“One presumes that some important ancestor had connections to East Anglia, from their naming choices”, Sherlock observed. “Who is next in line after Mr. Sigeberht?”

“He has three sons of his own”, the constable said. “Nice regular names, but not regular characters. Personally I would put my finger on the eldest, Charles. Nasty piece of work; I am sure that his dear old dad would like to disinherit him, but although he could stop him getting the title, he would still get the estate; as I said, it is a male-line thing. The second son, John, is married to Doctor Charing's daughter Nancy with a son of his own, and the third, Peter, is married to a Shipston girl and lives up there, but with no children as yet.”

I remembered that Shipston-on-Stour was a rather pleasant little town that we had passed through on our way down from Stratford, about six miles north of the village. Not that far, I thought.

“Does Mr. Charles have children?” I asked.

“He is engaged to a girl from Cherington, a village about five miles north of here”, the constable said. “What do you think, sirs?”

“It all seems fairly obvious”, Sherlock said, to my astonishment. “Of course, proving it may be a little more problematic - English juries tend to like solid facts before they convict, more is the pity - but I am sure we can get a conviction.”

We both stared at him.

“Obvious, sir?” the constable asked, sounding even more dubious.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “I think that I would like to see where the murder took place first, if that is possible.”

“I had thought to stop at the Red Lion for coffee, sir”, the constable said. “But if you would rather.....”

My friend gave him a Look. I smiled; this policeman had actually thought to stand between Sherlock and coffee. There might be a second murder if he was not careful!

“Red Lion it is!" our host smiled.

Sherlock looked sharply at me as well, but I just smiled innocently. As if I would make fun of his caffeine addiction.

Maybe later.

+~+~+

I did not like the coffee at the Red Lion – frankly I half-expected my spoon to dissolve in it, it was that strong – but of course Sherlock loved it, so drank mine as well. Our consulting detective having been thoroughly re-caffeinated, we set out to the scene of the murder.

“Is there some sort of legend surrounding these stones?” I asked, as we looked at a single standing stone that, I felt, was a little precarious. On the other side of the road was a large stone ring, but the 'King Stone' dominated the hillside, looking over the long descent back down to the village far below.

Far, far below. I pointedly looked the other way.

“Folks say that, back in the Dark Ages, a warlord, his soldiers and some hired mercenaries came this way”, the constable said. “The warlord went through the village and met a witch, who told him that if he could but look down upon the village from this hill, he would become a king of England. He sent his soldiers and mercenaries up here first, and when nothing happened, came up after them – but before he could look down, she changed them all to stone.”

“Bit tough on his men”, I observed, refraining from pointing out that there had been no 'England' at that time.

“They, so the story goes, had been plotting against him”, the constable said. “She turned the whole damn lot of them to stone, then changed herself into a tree. Lord alone knows why. The King used to be bigger, but we keep getting a lot of idiots come see him who want to take away a souvenir.”

Sherlock was looking around thoughtfully. It was windy on this exposed hilltop, and his hair was somehow contriving to look worse than ever. Maybe this was a place where miracles could happen.

“I think that we need to see Doctor Charing”, he said after a while. “I have a feeling that he may be able to take us an important step forward in this matter.”

At least we would be off this blasted hill, I thought. We headed back to the cart.

“Were there any witnesses to the victim's final walk?” Sherlock asked, as we drove off. The constable thought about that.

“No-one that came forward”, he said. “Though you might ask Peggy Woolworth. She's the nosiest cat in the whole village!”

“We should detour and see her, then”, Sherlock said, to the surprise of both of us. “I recall you said mentioned the good doctor lives in Whichford, which I know is to the north of here, so it would be on our way.”

+~+~+

Unfortunately Miss Peggy Woolworth – over twice the size of the unmissed Mrs. Masters but with the same predatory look - was one of those large ladies who, with one glance at Sherlock, were clearly thinking 'marriage'! As if! 

“Yes, I saw poor Red heading up towards the Stones”, she said, sending yet another simper at Sherlock (really, it was as if he had some sort of invisible banner above his head that flashed the words 'single and available'!). “Silly man, I thought. Even with that ghastly green scarf wrapped around him, he must have been freezing.”

“How could you see his scarf?” I asked suspiciously. The track up the hill came out of the village a good hundred yards from her cottage.

“Bird-watching is a hobby of mine, doctor”, she beamed. “I have a most excellent set of binoculars.”

Nosy old bat, I thought uncharitably. And she could stop simpering at poor Sherlock, as well.

+~+~+

Doctor Stephen Charing was an affable grey-haired fellow in his fifties, and he welcomed us to his Whichford home. He seemed surprised at our involvement in the death of Lord Sewell, but answered our questions readily enough.

“Mr. Sigeberht raised the alarm when his brother did not come home from his walk”, he said. “I remember his son Charles being quite dismissive about it, saying that his uncle probably just fancied a longer walk. Sadly he was proven wrong; we found the body quite quickly.”

“I would have liked to have had my friend look at the body”, Sherlock said ruefully. “But I suppose that he has been buried by this time.”

“Actually no”, the doctor said. “Peter Sewell, the youngest, was away up in Scotland when it happened – his wife's sister was ill - and he only returned home today. The funeral is set for tomorrow.”

“Where is the body?” Sherlock asked urgently.

“In the police station”, Constable Macdonald answered, much to the surprise of both of us. “What with all the talk surrounding his death, I thought it better to keep him there. Mrs. Ives, who 'does' for these parts, has made him decent.”

“You have examined him?” Sherlock asked the doctor. 

“I did a basic examination, and found nothing untoward”, he said. 

“What about his clothes?” Sherlock pressed. 

“He has been dressed in his best clothes, and the original ones returned to his family”, the doctor answered, looking slightly vexed at the continued questioning.

Sherlock sat back and pressed his long fingers together. 

“Constable”, he said at last, “you know the Sewell household. Who, in your opinion, is the most reliable member of the serving staff.”

“Jude, sir”, the policeman answered without hesitation. “The late Lord Sewell's valet. Young for his post, but trustworthy.”

“I wish you to ask him to attend us at the station”, Sherlock said carefully, “and it would greatly help our cause if he could bring a certain item along with him. And then for you to maybe look the other way whilst Watson here examines the late victim.”

+~+~+

One of these days, I thought as I cleaned up after attending the late Lord Sewell, Sherlock was going to be wrong about something. Law of averages. It had to happen.

Probably.

I was getting delusional in my.... early middle age. And someone could stop smirking right this minute, damn him!

+~+~+

Mr. Harrison Jude was, I thought, everything that an English valet should be. He was in his early thirties, walked bolt upright and had an air of openness and honesty about him.

“I would like to start”, Sherlock said, “with a somewhat personal question if I may. Did you actually _like_ your employer?”

That clearly surprised the servant. He hesitated for a moment.

“Be assured that nothing you say will be repeated outside these four walls”, I reassured him. Unless Miss Woolworth is outside with a glass to the wall, I added silently.

Why was Sherlock smirking again? I resisted the urge to throw my hands in the air and give up.

“His Lordship could be a difficult man at times”, the valet conceded, “but he was a fair man. I had to go to London one time to see my mother, who was very unwell, and he not only paid my fair but also gave me paid leave. That was kind of him.”

That had been, I thought. Few masters would go so far. 

“I thank you for bringing the item that I requested”, Sherlock said, extracting a pair of what looked like expensive walking-boots from a bag. “These belong to your late master's nephew, Mr. John Sewell?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“I also asked the constable to get you to check one other thing before you came down”, Sherlock said. “Did you manage to do it?”

“I did, sir”, the valet said. “It was as you said. The item had been recently washed, and Mrs. Ferguson the housekeeper confirmed that she had been asked so to do, as it required hand-washing.”

“Then the case is complete”, Sherlock smiled, sitting back. We all looked at him.

“May you be telling us who done it, sir?” the constable asked politely.

“This was a most cleverly planned and well-executed crime”, Sherlock said. I knew that he enjoyed (and sometimes prolonged) these moments of revelation, but in my opinion, his genius earnt him the right so to do. “I understand, constable, that the body of the victim was found at approximately four in the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would draw your attention first to the weather that day”, Sherlock said. “Although it is June, traditionally described as 'flaming', the weather of the past few weeks has been very cold. In addition, the place the body was found, on an exposed hilltop, was important in the crime. Because, informative as your report undoubtedly was, constable, it contained an unintentional error. The doctor placed the time of death as between one and two o'clock. We know that Miss Woolworth saw the victim climbing the hill at around one, which would tend to suggest that his heart gave way some time after he completed his arduous ascent. However, that was not what actually happened.”

“The thing that I find curious is the statement of Mr. Charles Sewell. We know, because of the evidence of the staff at the house, that he could not have been out on the hill that afternoon. Seemingly he gained by the death, as it moved him one stage closer to succeeding to the title, but then his father might live for years. And you, constable, told me that Mr. Charles claimed to have knocked on his uncle's study's door whilst he was working in there, and heard him call out not to be disturbed. Lord Sewell could not be there and on the hill at one and the same time, so why would his nephew lie?”

“I would like to put to you a different scenario, one for which, I am happy to say, there is some evidence. Whether or not a court will accept it as proof to send a man to the drop, I am not sure, but I believe that we shall soon see. Lord Sewell was murdered by his brother and his brother's second son, John, sometime around half-past twelve.”

We all stared at him in shock. He continued.

“As the doctor has just confirmed, he was stabbed in the neck by an exceptionally fine instrument. His killers then made their first mistake. Thinking to stop the bleeding, they used the nearest item to hand, which was his recently arrived replacement Clan Macdonald scarf. I would wager that neither killer has any particular interest in Caledonian history, which is one of the factors which proved their undoing. Mr. Sigeberht then sets out for a walk wearing his brother's coat, which he makes sure takes him along a path where the nosiest ca.... a person who is a keen bird-watcher might, ahem, 'chance' to see him.”

I smiled at that.

“Meanwhile, Mr. John Sewell is disturbed in the library by his brother, but fortunately the locked door and a decent impression of his now dead uncle keeps the latter at bay. At this point in the proceedings Mr. John Sewell had removed his uncle's body to a cart, and once his brother had left, he drove that cart to the rendezvous point by the King Stone.”

Sherlock turned over the boots.

“We all saw”, he said, “how the area around the stone had been recently laid with new stone chippings. I have made a study of such things, and these particular chippings are from Staffordshire, and would not normally be encountered this far south. You will note, everyone, that two small chipping fragments are wedged into the soles of these fine boots.”

So they were. 

“Because it is such a cold day”, Sherlock went on, “there is little danger that the time of death will be able to be easily fixed. Although it was his son-in-law who was involved, I am sure that the doctor himself was innocent. Despite the cold wind, he may have been inclined to fix the death as having happened closer to the correct time, except that you, constable, had already told him that the man had been seen alive at one o'clock. The doctor therefore placed the time as somewhat later.”

 

“Doubtless the new Lord Sigeberht thought his and his son's plan perfect – but we now come to his second and fatal error. You will remember that Miss Woolworth described his scarf as green, which even with her binoculars, it would have seemed at that distance. The original clan scarf, which Lord Sewell hated so much, was predominantly green – but the replacement was mostly blue. You might experiment with a pair of field-glasses at the same distance to check that, constable, but you will find that it is the case.”

“The body of the victim is placed by the King Stone by Mr. John Sewell – the location, you will note, was behind the stone from the village, shielding the wrongdoers – then he and his father ride quickly to Chipping Norton. In that busy town, they are seen in a local tavern at around the time the murder is actually reckoned to have taken place, over an hour after it truly had. They therefore have an alibi for a murder that they have themselves committed.”

We were all silent for a moment.

“May I ask about my question to the housekeeper, sir?” the valet asked at last.

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled. “As I said, the 'correct' or second scarf was used to staunch the relatively mild flow of blood from the wound. It was quite possible that, had it been seen, it would have been put down to a shaving nick, but they did not wish to take even that chance. I would wager that the new Lord Sewell handed the scarf to the housekeeper for hand-washing, saying something along the lines that he now wanted to return it to the shop because of the unhappy memories that it evoked, but that it would naturally have to be washed first.”

“That is exactly what he told her, sir”, the valet said, looking at Sherlock in awe.

“The only problem”, Sherlock said, “will be getting a conviction. We are talking a capital offence here, and twelve good men and true usually only convict on certainties. Well, we shall see.”

+~+~

See we did. After consulting with Mr. Charles Sewell, Sherlock informed the man's father and brother of the case against them and said he was putting the matter in the hands of the authorities one week from that day. Naturally both men immediately tried to sell as much of the estate as they could, only to find that Sherlock had forestalled them and that all their efforts were delayed (coincidentally, for at least a week!). They then had the decency to flee the country for parts unknown, and there were not missed.

+~+~+

We spent another night at the Red Lion, after which I fully expected Sherlock to head for Chipping Norton and a train back to his beloved London. But instead Constable Macdonald drove us all the way back to Stratford, which seemed an avoidable delay. Until he said goodbye to us, and I noticed my friend looking unusually thoughtful.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I assume too much about you at times”, he said ruefully, holding up his hand when I looked set to deny it. “No, Watson, I really do. So when I knew we were coming up here, and I remembered that you said that you would want to visit the birthplace of our greatest author for a few days, I arranged with the surgery for some extra cover for you. We have a whole extra week here, and can take a Sunday train home and....”

He stopped, mainly because in an unmanly expression of gratitude I was hugging the living daylights out of him. What of it; the road behind us was empty, and if anyone in the guest-house in front of us was looking out of the window – even if there was some other nosy old bat 'bird-watching' with her binoculars - well, tough.

“Thank you”, I sniffed. “I... thank you.”

He patted me on the back, and I let him go. I did not deserve this wonderful man, but I was determined to hold onto him as long as I could.

+~+~+

Next, the unwonted re-appearance of Mrs. Margaret Masters prompts Sherlock to take a case in an exclave.


End file.
